Men at Work

One of the things I enjoy most each weekday morning is the hugs I get from Chris and Tommy before I head out the door to work. Some mornings they jostle for position to be the first one to kiss me goodbye. Other times they vie to see who can give me the strongest ‘bear hug.’

Occasionally, if I have to go into the office early, they are rubbing the sleep from their eyes and all they can muster is a mumbled, “Bye, daddy.”

That is the cutest, actually.

So perhaps you can understand my disappointment when my kids raced out the door, barely acknowledging my existence, as I said goodbye to them this morning.

You see, the construction crew was working on the road two blocks from our house. And I just can’t hold a candle to the guys who drive the big trucks.

I think every father secretly hopes his kids look up to him, respect him, and are proud of him. I’m not talking hero worship or anything ridiculous like that. I just want my boys to feel good about their dad, who he is and what he does.

But I’m a suit and briefcase guy. Well, not a suit exactly – it’s ‘business casual’ these days, but you get the point. I go into an office, sit in a cubicle all day, talk on the phone, create documents, and come home. The end result of my labor can generously be described as ‘intellectual property.’

To a five year old boy, that’s mumbo jumbo.

But road building – now that’s real, something they can understand. You can ride a bike on a road. You drive on a road. Without roads, how would we get anywhere?

So I drove over to the job site on my way to work. From across the street, sitting in my car, I watched Chris and Tommy, sitting on the curb with MBW, watching these guys resurface the street. They stared in awe as these heroic men in orange vests drove the massive yellow trucks. These huge, noisy machines, belching black smoke, turning the street from a broken, uneven surface to a smooth, glistening road – all under the direction and absolute control of The Men Who Build Roads.

What’s not to love?

I get it, I really do. I was a kid once, too, and I remember the fascination with big trucks.

But a part of me is just a little bit envious that these nameless guys got the attention that, by god, was rightfully mine this morning. These are my kids, dammit. Who’s in the office every day, slaving away, putting money into their college funds and making sure they have health insurance? Who’s been saving for that new bike a certain five-year-old so desperately wants? Who took the three-year-old to Build-A-Bear the other day and delivered the brand-new, personally stuffed, voice-chip equipped stuffed Elmo?

Not the guys in the orange vests!

Nope, it was me, good old dad.

Boring old dad.

Oh, it gets better.

When I got home this evening and sat down at the dinner table, Chris, who fancies himself as quite the young adult these days, turns to me and says, “So, how was your day, Dad?”

It’s kind of cute that he asks. He’s heard MBW say this, knows it’s what adults say to each other, and wants to participate.

So I tell him. I tell him how I spent the morning building an elaborate Excel spreadsheet showing all of our company’s marketing expenses for the rest of the year. I tell him how, after some trial and error, I built formulas that calculate the percentage of Market Development Funds we will accrue with each month’s processor purchases, and how that number is automatically figured into the next month’s marketing expenditures. I see his bright green eyes glaze over as I describe in exquisite detail how we’re able to extend the reach and frequency of our advertising with optimum use of these funds. I see him start to nod off as I talk about the two hour conference call we had with our European sales office. He perks up slightly as I imitate the voice of our Italian rep, only to fall face down in his soup as I describe the 800 word e-mail I so carefully crafted later that afternoon blasting a vendor for missing a delivery date on our direct mail piece.

When I finally stop talking, he lifts his face out of his soup, wipes himself off with his napkin, and asks, “But Dad…what did you DO?”

And there it is.

I don’t build roads.

But, hopefully, I build futures. A future for him, for me, for our family.

But he doesn’t see that now, nor should he. He’s a normal five-year-old kid, and in his world, the Road Builders are King.

He likes the Big Trucks.

Maybe this weekend I’ll go buy the biggest pickup truck I can find.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!

It’s great to be The Family Man.